


Shot

by Siria



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Challenge: Porn Battle V, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-15
Updated: 2008-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He should've known better than to let Carter mix the drinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shot

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle V

He should've known better than to let Carter mix the drinks. Nights like these, she pours shots with the liberal hand of her southern mother, liquid brimming hot and sticky over the side of the glass, and mixes her measures to match. By the time she's concocted the third round from the contents of the mini-bar, Mitchell's listing on the sofa, head lolling against Teal'c's broad shoulder; when she hands Jack another drink, he chokes on the first burning mouthful.

"What the hell is this?" he splutters.

"Screwdriver, sir," Carter says, not looking up at him; she's busy fixing up something for Teal'c, pink and alcohol-free, and she's frowning at the umbrella which refuses to balance in the glass.

"You'll forgive me if I'm wrong," Jack says, debating whether to knock it back or pour it all into the pot-plant on the end table next to him, "but I'm pretty sure there's supposed to be some orange juice accompanying the extra-strength vodka."

"It'd pass FDA requirements for citric acid content," Carter says breezily, clinking glasses with Teal'c before she downs some acid-bright mixture that Jack'd bet is beloved of hen parties and has an obscene name. The edges of her words are blurred and she's still not looking at him. She probably won't for the rest of the night; he'll grant her that, and let her look awkward and blame it on 'gate lag in the morning.

He sets the glass down on the table, steps over the epic battle of high stakes Go Fish which is taking place on the floor between a tipsy Walter and a grinning Vala, and heads for one of the suite's bedrooms, the one he's sharing with Daniel. It's dim inside, and he has to blink for a moment to let his eyesight adjust. Much as he hates to admit it to himself, even now, his Special Ops days are long behind him; neither his vision nor his alcohol tolerance are what they used to be.

He opens his eyes to see Daniel sitting on the bed: staring out the window at the D.C. skyline, the flicker of lights and the shadowed outline of buildings. "Daniel," Jack says.

"Jack," Daniel says. He sounds drunker than Jack, more sober than Carter, and he's staring out the window like there's something out there he wants to see; it's probably safe to sit next to him, so Jack does. There's silence until Daniel shifts, seemingly restless. "That was a hell of a eulogy." The tone of his voice is neutral, but Jack would recognise the thread of anger, of grief, it hides no matter what damn language Daniel was speaking.

"I thought he'd appreciate it," Jack says, forcing the air of calm that he knows is a sure-fire way to make Daniel lose it. Daniel's head whips around. For a moment, Jack thinks Daniel's going to punch him: that when he moves, he'll shatter all that forced restraint he's built up around him over the years. Instead, Daniel takes a shuddering breath and wraps one big hand around the nape of Jack's neck before kissing him, hard and furious; bites at the line of his jaw and pushes him backwards; straddles him and kisses him again and again until Jack's gasping like he did just take a fist to the gut.

It's possible Daniel is a little more drunk than Jack thought.

"Hey," he says, thinking of the living room the far side of the door that's still ajar, the creak of bedsprings and the moans Daniel makes when he comes, "Daniel. Not here, we—"

"Shut up," Daniel replies, fissures of tension in his voice, and deftly undoes Jack's fly. He reaches into Jack's boxers, and despite the alcohol, despite the long, long day it's been, Jack starts to harden at his touch. "I, _we_, we had to sit there and listen to you, and now you're going to lie there and listen to me."

Jack lies there, but Daniel doesn't say anything out loud: just strips him of his shoes and his clothes, grinds down against him til Jack's achingly hard and his blood is burning with something more than alcohol, until Jack gives up and gives in and wraps his arms around Daniel, rucks the dress shirt up under Daniel's arms and traces the length of that flexing spine with blunt fingernails.

_Bastard_, Daniel whispers against his mouth, and _Jack_, and Jack says _I know_ and _yeah_, and he doesn't say _I'm sorry_, because this is all the two of them can do, together or apart, even now.


End file.
